


Sorry, Wrong Number

by Medie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deanna already knew she wasn't the right man for the job with or without righteousness and a cock. Not having a y chromosome didn't stop her from unleashing the apocalypse so, you know, who the fuck cares?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorry, Wrong Number

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kijikun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kijikun/gifts).



Somewhere along the line, she stops listening. Angels dithering about her lack of cock isn't going to change her mind one way or the other. Deanna already knew she wasn't the right man for the job with or without righteousness and a cock.

Not having a y chromosome didn't stop her from unleashing the apocalypse so, you know, who the fuck cares?

Shimmying out of her jeans, she flops down on the paisley atrocity that the motel calls a bedspread and contemplates whether or not she has the energy to take off her shirt.

Verdict is fuck no, so Deanna closes her eyes. She's not going to sleep. With the nightmares waiting every time she drops off, she's pretty much given up on sleep. She'll just lie here awhile and think about drinking herself into oblivion. Somewhere deep that the screams of the damned can't reach.

The room goes quiet and she opens her eyes. "Go ahead," she says, sighing. "Say it."

"You shouldn't do that."

"Ignore them?" Deanna snorts. "Why not?" Mustering up the energy, she pulls her shirt off and lets it drop to the floor. It's not exactly a subtle message, but she and Castiel have never been about subtle.

Besides, the faster he books it out of here, the faster she can get out the good booze.

Except, today, he's touchy-feely angel and wants to _talk_. The edge of the bed dips and she lifts her head. As expected, he's sitting there with his 'concerned angel' face on.

"Okay, as much as I hate shopping, we are getting your ass to a Goodwill," she says. "The holy accountant look is hot, but shit, Cas, we need to get you new clothes."

He frowns. "Deanna."

"How is it that you're the girl?" she asks, annoyed. "Because we are so very stereotypical that it is totally not even funny. I'm the emotionally stunted wreck and you're the one always trying to get me to talk about _feelings_."

"No," Castiel says, "I attempt to show you the truth."

Ah, right, the truth. That whole blessed inheritance of Eve, beauty, power, and whatever other sacred bullshit Castiel's throwing at her this week.

Okay, so maybe her last run in with Zach and company has her just a _little_ angry.

"Truth?" she sits up. His eyes drop, his cheeks reddening, and she gets a bitter thrill at the thought. "Like what you see?"

"Don't," he says, but she's already moving.

"Oh come on, Cas," she says, practically crawling across the bed. He doesn't move, holding himself perfectly still, "It's not like we haven't been dancing around it for months." She slides into his lap, feeling his hands go rigid. "You might not know about this stuff, but that body you're wearing does." She tries not to think about that most days. She knows that he's in there. That he has his reasons for doing this and that's something she respects (god knows, she's done worse) but she's got to think of him as Cas. If she doesn't, yeah she doesn't want to go there so much. Not when she's sitting on Castiel's lap, borrowed though it is.

She wriggles a little, squirms, and feels him respond. "See?"

" _Deanna_ ," he breathes, eyelids sliding shut.

It's almost a good thing she's familiar with Hell because, for this, she's heading back there first chance anybody gets.

"I know," she murmurs, leaning forward, "I get the message, Cas, I do, but I'm not what they think." The way Castiel looks at her is kind of killing her a little. "I know what you think you see -- " and she does. She sees it there every time she looks at him. That steadfast conviction, adoration even, and how fucked up is that? "I'm not."

His response surprises her. She's barely got a chance to blink before his eyes open and they move and she's pressed into the bed with a fiery-eyed angel staring down at her. "You _are_ , Deanna," he insists, erection pressing into her. This time, she's the one who tenses, arching her body up into him and, for once, Castiel rewards her by grinding down.

She can't stop the moan that slips out of her, can't stop it from rising into a whimper that has her fisting hands in his shirt. "I'm not," she says. "I'm not."

Castiel's lips kiss the words from hers, she falls silent in the trade of touch for touch. It doesn't stop the argument, her denial and her anger is in the sharp edge of her kiss, his stubborn insistence in the firm way he holds to her, presses her down, tongue sweeping into her mouth. She wants to fight, rage, but the reverence in his touch tempers her anger even as it arouses her desire.

She's wanted him from go. Even if she can't remember those last few seconds of Hell, Castiel rushing toward her, she knows. She wanted him then too. She's never been the one getting rescued. She charges in, she saves, she gets the job done. She saves Dad, Sam, and every stranger between here and gone, but not herself. Never herself.

Deanna grits her eyes shut, pushing out an oath of frustration. She wraps legs tight around him, her body twisting, and he's not ready for it. They twist, fumble, and then she's straddling him and looking down.

"I'm not," she says. She tosses her bra and pulls him up. So maybe she's deflowering an angel and, wow, that should be worth more drama than it is, but she's sick to fucking death of drama. "And this isn't some fucked up self-worth thing, okay?" Because the last thing she needs is Castiel falling into Sammy's psychobabble trap. One semester and the kid thinks he's Dr. Phil (god, a thought she never, ever wants to have again) and one of those is plenty.

"By the way, you go anywhere near reality tv, Cas, and we're going to have a problem."

He doesn't answer. His hands come up, cupping her breasts, and she'll never beat Dolly, but Castiel's staring at her like she's made of sunshine and rainbows or some dipshit romantic thing like that. She opens her mouth to say something, but he takes one in hand and his mouth sucks the other and she's kind of maybe groaning.

"Somebody's been watching the Playboy channel."

The cool air of the room has her nipples pebbling as he pulls away. "If you are attempting to 'get a rise' out of me, Deanna, it will not work," he says, solemn and sincere as if his cock's not pressing against her and he wasn't just sucking on her breast.

She twists her lips into a parody of a smirk, punctuating, "Oh yeah?" with a quick jerk of her hips. She's already wet, slick, and her underwear is probably ruining his pants right about now. Angels in the Laundromat; a sequel even Christopher Lloyd is too good to make.

Castiel nods. "Yes." One of his hands grabs for her hair, holding tight as the other slips into her underwear where one finger and then two track through the wet to push into her. It's too much too fast and she grits her teeth, chasing the pleasure-pain until she's riding his fingers.

He surprises her again, lips sliding over her skin. He's saying something, but she can't hear it, doesn't want to, not over the sound of her own breathing in her ears. Too gone to care, she fucks herself on his hand, wrapping one hand around his tie, the other on the bed behind her for purchase.

The first time she comes is a quick clench of muscles around him, a burst of pleasure that's almost, but not quite, good enough. Doesn't even start drowning out the mess in her head, but that's fine. Castiel sits up, fingers slick and shining, to tug at his tie.

"Sorry," she says, really not. "I think I ruined it." She slips to the bed, half-naked in her wrecked underwear, and watches him. He's methodical, despite the whole hard-as-hell thing going on. His coat, his shirt, and then pants are carefully removed. "Pretty sure your landlord's not going to care."

"Perhaps not," Castiel says, "I do."

"Of course he does," Deanna sighs. She lifts her hips to shuck out of her panties and kick them across the room. The whole good little soldier thing aside, she's never been all that good with behaving herself anymore than she's all that good with patience.

By the time Castiel's got things situated - and who the fuck explained _condoms_ to him? - she's digging her heels into the mattress, her own fingers busy between her thighs.

His fingers close around hers, pulling them aside, and forget the condom, Deanna wants to know who explained _that_. His technique's shit at first, tongue everywhere and nowhere, but then he starts on her in earnest. She catches him peeking at her through her thighs and, fuck that's kind of hot, watching her reactions.

She's pretty sure she comes from that alone, comes again when he's up and in her, setting a pace that could possibly kill her all over again.

"Fuck, Cas," she says.

His face pressed against her shoulder, Castiel lets out a sound that might, just might, be laughter. "I believe," he says, "I am."

"Dick," she snaps, too far gone to care. This time it's there, right there, and she fucking needs this. She pushes a hand between them, hard and heavy against her clit, and rubs until she's coming again.

Castiel, champ that he is, keeps right on going through it. "Impressive," she says and pushes him back and over. "Let's try this," she says, straddling him again. She's sore, but she starts moving again, riding hard until he fumbles, hands slip-sliding on the bed as he comes.

She slumps over him, palms flat against the bed, and tries to catch her breath. "I'm not who they think I am," she says. "I'm not and I've never been."

"No," he agrees. "You're better by far."

Deanna doesn't argue. Not because she agrees, but because there's no point. Castiel's eyes look stubborn, mulish, and she knows he's digging in for a fight. She shakes her head and then pats him on the chest once before sliding off.

A second to take care of the condom and then she's throwing herself down on the bed. "Lock up when you go."

He turns toward her, arm sliding around her waist.

"Fine," she says, closing her eyes, "but if you snore, I'm shooting you."

His lips brushing the back of her neck is Castiel's only answer. More relaxed than she wants to admit, Deanna closes her eyes.

She'll argue with him tomorrow.


End file.
